Drunk Texting in a Pub in the New Year

So we drove to Boston for New Year's Eve, which is a sight further than driving to Atlanta to hang out with BigBen and watching a concert. Because I thought he'd be killing someone up in South Boston, I didn't invite him to come along because I swore we would meet up, but his contract killing got cancelled. Sorry, BigBen.

Instead, we all piled into the rental car and did the 19 hour drive in 18 hours 59 minutes. It was a thing of beauty. By the time we got through all the boring parts of the south (we mapped ourselves away from toll roads and thus, big, beautiful cities), it was too dark to see if we were driving through scenic beauty or boring, Texas-like, stretches of flat emptiness. It didn't matter. All we really wanted to do was go to sleep, but we only had a few days in the city to do it all.

It began to snow as soon as we got into Quincy, MA. It was beautiful, a blanket of white to welcome us. We drove in the first fresh fall of it, before it became a hazard, at the point when you are still thinking maybe you should try to do a snow angel, before the chemical salt goes down and it is a dirty mass of ice scooped to the side of the road. Of course, we didn't reach our goal of doing it all in the city. We went into Boston and ended up shopping because I forgot that canvas shoes are no good in the snow. By the time we made it to Prudential Center, the back of my heels were frozen and I was sure I would never feel my feet again. I ended up buying rubber shoes in a high gloss grey, shoes I will never wear until I'm once again back in Boston.

We headed back to Quincy to eat and drink, to drink and eat, to drink and drink. We went to a bar where we listened to true Irish accents and a cover band that wasn't bad, but wasn't good either. They had several Sam Adams on tap, but no other stout beers to speak of outside of Guinness, whose flavour has been reducing for the last few years. We ran over to a sports bar, fighting the biting wind, where we found blueberry beer that was like drinking a spring day and a clam chowder that we forced the girl allergic to seafood to try. Because it was that good. Whatever happened would be worth it. She agreed, even after whatever happened. We tried to go to another bar, just a bar, but it was too full for what we wanted, a quiet place to sit and talk and drink as we ushered in the New Year in a different city. We left that bar quickly and decided to brave the alleyway to check out places on a different street and came to a bar that was just what we were looking for. We ordered shots, played pool and as midnight crept up on us, the management passed out hats and tiaras and noise makers and offered us meatballs and sausage to snack on. Apparently, people will eat anything when they've been drinking. After Ryan Seacrest and Dick Clark brought in the New Year, champagne was passed around and both our table companion and the guys a table over went crazy with the noise makers, we called a cab to drive us the two miles back in the snow to our hotel. It cost $10.

And the drunk message I typed to all and sundry with cell phone and texting capabilities? Happy time wasting New Year! You all are great and I love you all, from a bar in Boston. Don't ask me about the champagne. I didn't get any.

This went to many people, some who didn't have my number anymore and one of the messages even crossed over into Africa. It was nice to wake up to a ton of message either wishing me the same or asking who I was.

It was a good NYE, a good night of food and drinks and camraderie. An excellent road trip and a brilliant start to the new year. Drunk texting and all.